Chanting London Bridge
by concretekisses
Summary: About a boy. A strange boy. The boy addicted to murder. A boy who steals the lives of what he can't have and takes it as his own. He is the hero. He is the villian. (Based on Bert McCracken from the Used and lyrics from My Chemical Romance.)


Bert neared the window of the Greyhound bus and hid his face beneath his black hood. It was late, and he was escaping his home. Being only seventeen, he couldn't legally leave, but it's not like his mother would have noticed if he was gone. She was in her own stupor of painkillers and vodka by the time he'd walked out the door.

Bert wasn't exactly average looking towards anyone, and as he got on the bus, people began to stare at the paleness of his skin and the red blotches underneath his sleepless eyes. Pushing his long black hair behind his ear, he sighed and eventually found an open seat near the back, the darker part of the bus.

He wasn't running away. He was escaping. There was such a difference. Running away was for the young and hopeless, the teens that _thought_ their lives were shit. But he knew his life was shit, and he didn't want to be hurt anymore. His mother wasn't necessarily the most comforting person, and she never brought anyone home even close to that. Bert hated it. He hated being pushed around by men who were only after his mother for money and a quick fix on their lust. The last one, Rob, had set him off.

Bert left the house with a broken arm hanging limply from his skin. He'd have to have it repaired when he reached Salem. It'd be awhile though. His wound throbbed in pain as he leaned his forehead against the window. The sky was starless, just tattered Colorado clouds that seemed to follow him everywhere. He couldn't say he didn't like it though. At least he had something to look back on.

Blinking his soft blue eyes, he looked up towards the front of the bus. The driver was quiet and looked like a statue placed there for a joke. Older people were sleeping and a young girl was reading a novel. He watched them all intently, wondering what they were thinking…or what they sounded like when they screamed.

Shaking that thought off, he refused to do that again. No. Never again. The first had been a fluke…a mistake he…enjoyed. Hitting himself harshly on the wrist, his skin let off of a loud slap that interrupted everyone to looking back at him. Grimacing, he turned to the window again, lifting his legs up to his chin and sighing.

Those thoughts never seemed to leave him. The thoughts of crimson covered grass blades and the adrenaline pumping into his heart like drugs. He liked the kill. He liked the blood. He liked the death. He didn't know why though…he thought perhaps he was just imagining this feeling he received from it. The first girl wasn't even supposed to die…it just happened.

Bert wasn't going to think of that anymore. It only made him want to jump from his seat and shoot everyone on this damn bus. Watching them with his blue eyes cut delicately from his bruised face, he smirked and hit his wrist again, "No…" he murmured. Sliding his back down the padded seat, they were out of his vision.

Relaxing towards the hum of the engine, it was cold on this bus. It made him comfortable. His feet were finally covered with shoes he'd borrowed from his neighbor and the jacket he had on wasn't his either. Those made him feel less like himself, and more like a stranger. That was what he wanted all along. Just to feel like he wasn't Jamie anymore.

The coppery smell lingering off of his wounds made his heart leap up into his throat. He looked towards his backpack and began to sweat as his fingers twitched furiously, begging for him to do something. _No Bert…no…bad boy…_ The thoughts were always floating through his head. _Do it Bert…Take out the gun…the bullets will look so pretty in that girl's flesh. _So many voices. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why couldn't he just find his own voice? "Why won't you shut up!?" He screamed suddenly, jumping from his seat with his hands clenched in fists, "SHUT UP!" He grabbed his head as his black hair flew into his eyes.

They were staring at him now. All those people were staring at him. His eyes flew past them, trying to find a way to get off the bus and run. It was too tempting…it was all too tempting for him. Grabbing his backpack, the woman with her novel looked at him in pure terror, dropping her book as he ran past her. The bus driver started to roar at Bert with lost words as Bert pounded on the doors to be let off, "Let me off! Open the fucking doors!"

"Sit the fuck down kid! You're not getting off the bus!" The man shouted, his face developing into a frightened red as Bert turned to him, darkness hitting his eyes with such intensity, the man flinched.

The voices were whispering insanely to him now, telling him to slit the man's throat…cut him open and watch him die, "You will let me off this bus, or I won't be obtainable for my next actions." He hissed, watching the man, as the whole bus grew silent, the younger woman's eyes were developing with tears. He was lost in his own anger now. He was lost in the voices. He thought he could get away, but he couldn't…and he wasn't going to kill tonight.

The man chortled and continued to drive, his face watching the road as he ignored Bert's glaring and words, "What the hell are you going to do to me?" his eyes were watery as they sunk even deeper into his fatty cheeks. Pulling out a small handgun from underneath the steering wheel, he smiled maliciously, seeming to think he'd won.

Bert stayed put, gripping his backpack with his uninjured arm as his fingers felt through the zipper and into a deep pocket. This man just didn't know when to shut up, and Bert wasn't going to be talked to like that.

Whipping out his own gun, the blue steel rattled in his hand as he cocked his head, not even pausing to whisper a goodbye to the man. He'd see Bert in hell eventually.

Click.


End file.
